


The Last Outlaw

by tompaine39



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Adult Jack Marston, Childhood Memories, F/M, Family, Fluff and Humor, Jack Writes Red Dead, Jack becomes a Historian, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:40:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24495856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tompaine39/pseuds/tompaine39
Summary: A series of articles, publications, vignettes, and journal entries from the life of acclaimed historian, philosopher, journalist, and rancher John (Jack) Marston II.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston & Jack Marston, Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Jack Marston & John Marston, Jack Marston/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 41





	1. The Life and Legacy of Edgar Ross

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing.

Date/Location: April 17, 1991: Beecher’s Hope Ranch, Stallion County, Commonwealth of West Elizabeth

Submission to: Journal of the American West, 22nd Edition

Author: Dr. John (Jack) Marston, Jr. Professor Emeritus of American History, University of Blackwater 

Title: Musings of a Dying Fossil: The Death and Legacy of Edgar Ross

In my more than six decades as a historian, I have noticed a great shift in how the discipline is conducted. Many of my colleagues (and myself included) pay far too much attention to constructed data, to military equipment, to machinery, and the search for a hidden fact or truth that somehow justifies their political or economic ideology. What is lost throughout this entire process are the stories. We all have our own stories, as do the dead, and mine is coming to an end. I am ninety-six years old, was recently diagnosed with terminal cancer, and I feel my body getting weaker every day. Perhaps I have a month left to live, two if I’m lucky. I am quite certain that this will be my last ever publication.

Coming to terms with my own mortality (my three children, John III, Abby, and Arthur have been instrumental in this) has given me an opportunity to notice that I, in essence, am a living relic of history. I remember the excitement when the city of Blackwater first installed its streetlights, and the proclamation that days would now last forever (a notion that seems silly to the contemporary, cosmopolitan, and supposedly enlightened metropolis of eleven million). I remember when Saint Denis smelled of soot and excrement, the air being as toxic to the lung as tobacco. I remember traveling for days on horseback from town to town, notoriously perilous journeys that would now take fifteen minutes driving on the interstate (but I choose to take the train to work). Some of my earliest memories involve my early childhood with the infamous Van der Linde gang (who I have written extensively about), and the mad dash to safety after the Blackwater Massacre of 1899. 

It is important to note, from an objectively historical perspective, that much of this advancement would not have been possible without the efforts and influence of Edgar Ross. His destruction of the Van der Lindes over a period of years is a known and frankly overdone subject of analysis. When I wrote Red Dead back in 1946, I sought to tell the stories of the gang at its peak, not of its downfall. The stories of my father (John Marston I), the gruff but gold-hearted Arthur Morgan, the whimsical but courageous “Uncle”, the maniacal Micah Bell, and the infamous Black Widow are known far and wide now (a fact of which I am quite proud of), but it was Edgar Ross who ended those stories.

I have long been a private critic of Ross, but I have refrained from criticizing him publicly due to his revered status in many areas of academia. I am now ninety-six, dying, and no longer care. I could write a series of books on my criticisms of Ross, but, as I no longer have the time or strength, consider this essay the drastically abbreviated version. 

The great German philosopher, Immanuel Kant, cautions us that it is wrong to use people as a means to an end, rather than an end in and of themselves. For those who may have not dabbled in ethics or philosophy in general, it is wrong if you use people for your own purposes. It is also wrong to murder them. Unfortunately, I do not think Edgar Ross accomplished anything in his life without using people. He used myself (an innocent boy) and my mother as bait for my father, and then used my father as a tool to draw out and exterminate the desired remnants of the Van der Linde Gang. Once Ross was done with my father, he killed him. 

My colleagues argue that Ross was the catalyst for western modernity, and that we’d all be riding horses and towing away on farms if it weren’t for him (as someone who has rode horses and towed the land for his entire life, I’m not sure what the problem is), and perhaps this is true to a certain extent. As I stated previously, the influence of Ross is undeniable. But the praise of progress as an intrinsic good concerns me, because as historians, it is imperative that we analyze at what cost the “good” came. In the case of Ross, the cost was blood and innocent lives. In many cases, the Pinkertons were as “bad” or worse than the outlaws they hunted. They murdered, hunted, stole, and raped. They destroyed innocent lives and communities without care, largely as the result of personal vendettas. The outlaw town of Van Horn, for instance, was violently occupied by Agent Andrew Milton in 1899 (until his subsequent assassination). 

Historians are not supposed to have opinions about criminal cases, merely report the information and interpret their wider impacts upon society, but the fact that the Assassination of Edgar Ross in 1914 is considered to be one of the greatest cold cases in history amuses me to no end. Criminologists, psychologists, forensic analysts, biologists, and both the American and Mexican governments have relentlessly hunted for a killer, but found nothing besides a dead old man beside a river in Mexico, a brother who had possibly had information but was too shocked to reveal it, and a widow who married a younger lover within a month. This is a special case, though, as it is the historian who has the definitive answer, as you need not look beyond Ross’ most famous quote, that “everyone eventually pays for what they've done.”

For years, Ross hunted, harassed, and abused myself and my loved ones. He killed my father, and would have left his body to rot had I not buried him at our ranch, like he would have wanted. I suppose this essay will be interpreted as a confession after I’m gone, but I don’t think it amounts to one.

Regardless, I killed Edgar Ross. I shot him in a duel on the Mexican side of the San Luis River. I did it for my father, and I am still as angry now as I was seventy-seven years ago. The authority of the state does not diminish the immorality of Edgar Ross.

To me, the word “confession” implies some level of guilt or remorse. By confessing, one expects some form of forgiveness or leniency. I feel neither guilt nor remorse and I ask for neither forgiveness nor leniency. If I had a thousand opportunities, I would kill Edgar Ross a thousand times. At this point in my life, there are only three things I wish for:

1\. That my loved ones continue to find happiness and prosperity, and I think that they will.   
2\. That I have made my father, wherever he is, proud.   
3\. That Edgar Ross is treated with the necessary historical accuracy to convey who he was.

I suppose I may be considered the last outlaw after my death, but I beg you to consider if any action of Edgar Ross was more just than mine. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about history as a study over the course of my long career, it’s that Edgar Ross had the right idea about one thing; Everyone eventually pays for what they've done.


	2. Excerpt from The American Ethic, by Dr. Jack Marston

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An excerpt from one of Jack's early philosophical works.

Date: June 23, 1923  
Location: University of Blackwater, Blackwater, West Elizabeth  
Excerpt from The American Ethic  
Dr. John (Jack) Marston II

The development of the United States as a modern power has confused contemporary scholars, because it has seemingly developed in opposition to the myths and legends that define its culture. The economy, now one of the strongest in the world, has a base of industry and labor that can only exist in cities, yet the ethos of the American man places him in the wild deserts of New Austin, living a harsh agricultural life with constant strife. The Great Cholera of 1908 is an added touch as well. The United States claims to be a liberator, a defender of freedom, equality, and self-determination. However, even if it refuses to admit it, the United States values loyalty to the State above else, and it dominates its colonies (de jure or de facto) in Cuba, Puerto Rico, the Philippines, Guarma, Hawaii, and Guam much in the same manner that Spain dominated Mexico or Britain and France dominate Alaska now. Maybe some of these lands will become full states in the future, but this eventual equality will be built on the back of present subjugation. 

I have little doubt that the United States will go on to punish *other* countries for violating *their* laws. Yet, as I wrote in my dissertation, The Blackmail of John Marston, it has no objections to coercing a man to serve it before gunning him down at his home when his usefulness has expired. Due process and a trial by jury are of no importance. 

That being said, the American myth is not some monolith, and it has evolved from sources far beyond the Founding Fathers over the two-hundred and forty-nine years of our existence. In the modern era, both academia and history produce the same myth, encapsulated by the Princeton theorist Dr. Evelyn Miller and the notorious outlaw Dutch Van der Linde respectively, but this myth is little more than fiction. 

Dr. Miller, though his ideas and ideals were at best flawed and at worst outright incorrect, was an earnest and respectable scholar, and ought to be treated as such. In The American Inferno, Miller draws a stark contrast between what America is and what America could be. Miller bases his analysis of what America is on a walk through Manhattan, which he describes as a “grand human inferno, [and a] fiery and mediocre hell” (II). His argument is poetic in nature and his language flowery, but his argument amounts to a critique of hedonism, as Miller characterizes Americans as someone who forfeits pleasures of the mind entirely in favor of pleasures of the body. To rectify this, Miller advocates a return of the American to Nature, a task that proved famously fatal to the thinker himself. 

Miller’s argument has two central problems: (1) The implication that America was ever anything besides what it is, and (2), the idea that Americanism is limited to the endless pursuit of bodily pleasure. 

First, America is not some pure unit of Nature. Instead, America is an idea, but it is a rotten core with a gleaming coating of liberty, equality, and justice. The core is subjugation, from the Indian to the “freed” slave to a redeemed land simply trying to farm. Nature is nature. There is nothing to morally distinguish a rock in New Hanover from a rock in Buenos Aires. 

Secondly, American greed is not merely limited to pleasures of the body. No, it is all-encompassing, ravaging mind, body, and metaphysical concept. If Americans simply wanted to pleasure themselves, they would never leave speak-easies or brothels, and plunge themselves into an early grave. Americans obtain pleasures of the mind by dominating everyone and everything around them, whether it be land, other men, or beasts, all for a utilitarian notion of the “common good” that is incoherent to all but those who are in power. 

Had Evelyn Miller met one of his supposed devotees, the outlaw Dutch Van der Linde, he might have starved himself to death earlier. I have written and will continue to write about Van der Linde in greater detail, but his career as an outlaw can be summarized as follows: Colm O’Driscoll, the Skinner Brothers, the Murfee Brood, the Lemoyne Raiders, and the Del Lobos were each arguably more brutal, but they each had principles (or lack thereof) and stuck to them. Van der Linde committed the greatest crime of them all...hypocrisy. He claimed to be a scion of the social contract, and a fighter for the poor and downtrodden (especially before the Blackwater Massacre of 1899). One consistent theme throughout history is that people inevitably become more of who they really are. 

Robbery after robbery, mass murder after mass murder, pillaging after pillaging, Van der Linde tore a destructive path wherever he went. So brutal was his rampage in 1899 that his adopted sons, John Marston and Arthur Morgan, turned against him. Morgan’s attitude became increasingly antagonistic towards Van der Linde, increasingly referring to his “infinite wisdom” (Journal of Arthur Morgan). Morgan died of tuberculosis while attempting to rescue others, my parents among them, directly or otherwise, from Van der Linde’s madness. 

It is therefore infuriating, yet disturbingly American, that Van der Linde, a mere fourteen years after his suicide, has been immortalized as a heroic, Robin Hood-esque figure that fought for those who could not fight for themselves. 

This is a country of ideological violence, so it is only fitting that it reveres the mass murderer instead of the penitent sinner or the redeemed father. A certain level of violence is justifiable for when justice or negotiation fails, but the United States turns it into a religion. Despite the country being increasingly characterized by peaceful lives, technology that makes seeing tomorrow likelier, and safe cities, it is men like Van der Linde who capture the imagination. 

I may be accused of having too personal a connection to the subject matter to discuss it properly, but I am not the only one to make these observations. Prince Pytor Kropotkin discussed this at length in the Conquest of Bread, though I disagree with his connection between violence and property. 

In the next chapter, I will address why socialism is an unsuccessful remedy to America’s illness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack's political and philosophical views do not in any way represent mine, only what I think his would be. The next chapter will be a vignette from 1939.


	3. A Letter Exchange with an Old Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack exchanges letters with an old friend, and makes preparations to visit.

Mr. Charles Smith  
1003 Aspen Road  
Squamish, British Columbia, Canada  
V8B 0G3

Return to:  
Dr. John “Jack” Marston  
Beecher’s Hope Ranch  
Blackwater County, West Elizabeth, United States - 65719

Postmarked: April 23, 1939

Hi Mr. Smith,

I hope all is well, and that you’ve created the family you always wanted. I have one of my own now and it’s certainly a blessing. Please let me know how you’re doing. As a result of my line of work, this isn’t how I normally write, so forgive me if it’s slightly clunky or disorganized. As for how I know you’re still kicking, let’s just say I have my sources and leave it at that. 

After more than twenty years, I know this letter is certainly out of the blue, but I felt I owed you an explanation. You did so much for my family and I, and I feel like I’ve failed you by becoming a stranger. As you know, I wasn’t in a good place after my father and Uncle died back in ‘11. What you don’t know (though I assume you suspect) is why the letters stopped coming in ‘14. 

My mother never truly recovered from my father’s death, but she was always a strong woman. However, while it may have taken three years, she absolutely died of a broken heart. I was not myself after she passed away, and I came very close to...embracing our old life. I took a Sabbatical in Mexico (I’ll tell you more about that if we ever meet), and that’s when my life changed. On the road near Thieves’ Landing, I helped a fellow who was being robbed. He offered to pay me, but as it happened, he was a historian and political scientist at the University of Blackwater. Seeing an opportunity, I asked if I could have a scholarship instead. 

Within six years, I had twin PhDs in History and Political Science and was writing my first book in the latter category. I’ve published about a dozen books and countless articles in five different languages since then, but politics feels so empty now. I threw myself into my work, and it took becoming a husband and a father (heh, both by accident) to see how rewarding life could be. I’ve been trying to become a better, less bitter person for about fifteen years now. Some of that involves a change in my focus. With the economy the way it is, everything feels so hopeless, and nobody is interested in discussing abstract notions of “what is the political” or Aristotle’s opinion on whether or not democracy is a legitimate form of government. 

I’m switching to history, at least for a time, and I seek to give the people what they want. The US government made a big show of pardoning you and the other living gang members back in ‘30, but I’ve never seen anyone treat the Van der Linde Gang as anything more than a sideshow. I’m a serious historian, and though I may have a personal bias, I want to treat this seriously.

But, I was four or younger for most of the events discussed. I don’t remember much beyond eating spaghetti (which is still my favorite food) in Saint Denis and then being saved by Arthur Morgan. I need eyewitness accounts, and I was hoping that you’d be willing to interview and provide testimony. On a personal level, it’s been too long, and I’d love to get reacquainted. Perhaps we can include Mrs. Adler as well, if she’s still alive and so inclined. 

If you don’t want to reflect on what happened in ‘99, I understand, but please let me know. I can take no for an answer. If you need any other proof that it’s me, I’m happy to oblige. 

Sincerely, 

Dr. John “Jack” Marston 

~

Dr. John “Jack” Marston  
Beecher’s Hope Ranch  
Blackwater County, West Elizabeth, United States - 65719

Return to:  
Mr. Charles Smith  
1003 Aspen Road  
Squamish, British Columbia, Canada  
V8B 0G3

Postmarked: May 1, 1939

Hello Jack, 

Happy to hear from you after all these years, and please call me Charles. You’d have to be in your forties now, right? There’s no need for formality. 

I believe that it’s you. Nobody wants me dead at this point, which is a nice change of pace.

I had always assumed that Abigail passed away, and I don’t fault you for having to find yourself afterwards. Losing the people you love at that age isn’t easy, and while I was saddened that the letters stopped, I’m glad you put yourself over your father’s old friend somewhere in Canada.

I married a beautiful woman back in ‘15 and I have two sons. My son, George, was already a toddler when I first met my wife, but I took him in as my own. Every child needs a father, especially in the Canadian wilderness (though it’s a little more settled now). George lives in Vancouver now, works as a bank teller downtown. I worry about him, but he visits often, and he seems to be doing well for himself. 

My other son, Arthur, sounds a bit like you a few decades back. He loves history, always asked me for stories about the Indians or Dutch Van der Linde. I was happy to speak of the former, but as you can imagine, the latter brought back memories I’d rather forget. I substituted by telling him stories about his namesake. He’s fifteen now, and lost in the world, unsure of what to make of himself. Maybe you can help him. I’m glad you asked. I’m an old man now. Old men love their families but have few people to talk about them with. 

As for your request, I’ve avoided talking about the past with anyone but your father, Uncle, and Sadie ever since everything went wrong. My wife knows, but she doesn’t like to talk about it either. With the pardon, however, I feel more comfortable discussing everything. The world should know what really happened, and I’m glad it will be you telling the story. 

Consider this letter an invitation to Canada. You and your family are welcome, and I hope to see you soon. Just let me know when you’ll be arriving.

Sincerely,  
Charles Smith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing. Jack's views are what I think his would be, not my own.


	4. Column in the New York Times: Men on the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack Marston lives to see men on the moon, and he's having a hard time grappling with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing

Column in the New York Times  
July 21, 1969  
Dr. John (Jack) Marston II, Brandon C. Thomas Professor of History, University of Blackwater

Title: Men on the Moon

Yesterday, I witnessed history.

I understand how cliche that must sound coming from a historian, but I don’t know how to explain the astonishment and awe I feel in any other way.

When I was young, I never gave much thought to what the world would be like when I was seventy-four. Heck, there was a period of time where if you told me I would live to be seventy-four I would’ve laughed. 

Yet, here I am...and not only has the world changed, but the United States has left it entirely. 

To consider Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldridge, and Michael Collins American heroes would do them a disservice. They are much more than that. They are the pioneers and trailblazers of the modern world, the men who future generations will revere as great explorers and patriots. 

What I would give to shake their hands.

My father died in 1911. During one of our final conversations, we discussed the invention of the airplane, news of which had only just made it to the farmland outside Blackwater.

He didn’t believe it. I remarked that men could finally be angels. 

Now, a mere fifty-eight years later, the United States of America has put three men on the moon. The moon. I never directly asked him, but my father probably would’ve referred to it as the Great Sky Pancake. 

Having grown up among outlaws and desperados, I hated the government and everything it stood for, as is common with a young man’s passion and a firm desire for revenge. In my experience, it was only capable of spreading wanton destruction and great suffering upon innocent folk. 

If you’ve read any of my books or articles written before 1925, you’ve probably seen this for yourself. 

Oh, to be young and full of fire once again.

But I am an old man now, and my views have matured considerably. I still have qualms, as any good citizen would, and I do think that the government as a whole does a considerable amount of harm. 

But, even with all that in mind, the most fervent libertarian or socialist among us must admit that this level of scientific achievement could only have occurred under the purview of the American government. 

Nowhere else in the world does science prosper so freely and with such fervor, and with contributions from so many. 

I would be remiss if I did not mention the work of Katherine Johnson, Mary Jackson, and Dorothy Vaughan, which would have been both ludicrous and legally impossible when I was a boy.

I wonder how the historians of the future will look upon the Moon Landing. Will it be a mere blip of progress in an otherwise bleak and arduous century, or will it mark the beginning of an age of progress and scientific advancement?

Personally, I hope it is the latter. 

Regardless, the America of today is not the America I grew up in, and that’s a good thing. 

The American I grew up in was a devilish place under a devilish regime, one the “modern” youth should consider themselves fortunate in their avoidance thereof. 

The America of today is a land of science and opportunity, a march of progress towards utopian ideals of equality and liberty.

We are not perfect. Far from it. And one day, whether it is now or in the future, we Americans will have to confront what our country has unleashed. 

But, at least there will be some good to show for it. Good created out of scientific advancement and enormous improvements in quality-of-life — but maybe that was the mere prelude to further greatness.

America is like a flawed father. As a boy, all you can see are his faults and you can’t help but hate him for them. As a man, you understand why they’re there.

I am seventy-four years old and I saw men land on the moon. Let’s use it as a spark for further achievement.


End file.
